


Wave of Mutilation

by orphan_account



Category: Fight Club (1999)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay (sort of), M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23326795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tyler has a razor blade.
Relationships: Tyler Durden/Narrator
Comments: 1
Kudos: 40





	Wave of Mutilation

The sun is setting, and the strong odour of freshly made soap fills the house. We’d found a shitty old TV in a Dumpster down the street from the bar, and we have nothing better to do than lay on the floor and watch dumb action movies. I sit cross-legged on the floor in my boxer shorts and a dingy white t-shirt. Tyler is slouched in an old armchair, freshly showered (or at least as freshly showered as one could get in this place) and wearing a pair of tight briefs that leave little to the imagination. I’m pretending to be very interested in the movie. I don’t want to stare.

That’s not true. I do want to stare. I want to stare at Tyler’s cock like a monk staring at the face of God. Only God doesn’t like people looking him in the eye for too long, so I try not to stare.

I can see Tyler playing with something in his hands out of the corner of my eye. He doesn’t have to focus on the movie. He can do whatever he pleases, because he is the superior being in the room and he knows it. This is why I’m wearing a shirt while he shows off his bare chest. This is why he’s the one wearing underwear that showed off his whole cock. He is immaculate. He is perfect.

Tyler isn’t the first man I’ve met who thought he was a god among men. Except Tyler doesn’t just think it. He knows it.

“Hey.”

His hand is on my shoulder. His voice is jovial, playful, but it still commands that I listen. I turn to face him, hoping I don’t end up face-to-dick. If I do, it’s probably what he wants. He’s kneeling over me, smirking, holding up a razor blade.

“Remember how I told you I didn’t want to die without any scars?”

“I think we’ve both gotten plenty of scars.” I rub the kiss mark on my hand. Thinking about it hurts. That isn’t even mentioning all the scars from getting pummeled. Tyler has his fair share too, adorning his muscled chest like a warrior. Scars are beautiful on Tyler.

“No,” he says, his grin intensifying. “Not like this.” He holds up his other arm. Trails of blood run down from his elbow all the way to his fingertips. The little cuts that encircle his forearm are far from just scratches-his skin is split open, blood beading on the surface a few moments before pouring down his arm. There’s another layer visible beneath the split skin, but I hadn’t paid enough attention in anatomy class to know if it’s muscle or something else. I’ve managed to chop myself up pretty good cutting vegetables, but I don’t think I’ve ever cut that deep. Either Tyler has the sharpest razor blade I’ve ever seen or he’s willing to press very, very hard.

“Sick,” I mutter.

“You like it?”

“It’s weird.”

“It’s incredible is what it is.” He flicks his wrist, sending a small shower of blood onto the carpet. “A full sleeve of scars in one sitting. Hopefully these are deep enough they’ll still be nice and visible when they heal. Still, it’s a hell of a spectacle until then, isn’t it?”

I look at his bleeding forearm. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it really is a hell of a spectacle.

“Touch them.”

“I-”

“Go on. Touch them.” He isn’t making an offer, he’s giving an order. Tyler doesn’t make offers.

I run a finger along his forearm, feeling the blood wet my fingertips. The skin around the cuts is getting red and swollen, covering his arm in little ridges. Before I even know it I’m running my fingers back and forth, spreading blood over his arm and feeling those weird little raised lines.

“You could use some yourself,” Tyler comments. I swallow. I don’t want cuts. I have a job. I can walk into work with a black eye, and people will assume I got in a fight. Which I’ve done before, and I’m proud of it. If I walk into work with cuts up and down my arms, people will assume I’m losing it.

But Tyler Durden doesn’t care about my job. And given the choice between his job and his god, the loyal devotee chooses the obvious.

I hold out my arm, not sure if he’s going to hand me the blade or just start slicing me up, but I’m ready. Tyler has hurt me before, but “hurt” sounds more malicious than it is. Tyler isn’t my abusive lover. Tyler is my caretaker, and violence is my medicine.

“No,” he says with a soft smile, pushing my arm back down. “I’m gonna cut you right here.” He runs a hand along my inner thigh. It’s too close for comfort, and my stomach turns right as my cock twitches. Fears of whether he just meant my thighs or if I’m going to end up with a newly textured cock pulse in my mind before I realise I don’t care. What would I do about it? Not like I’m using it for anything.

At first it’s just cold, cold metal against my inner thigh. Then it stings. Then it keeps hurting, almost like a burn, and before I can get used to it another sting comes. It’s hardly a tickle compared to the lye, but it still hurts. Not like fighting. It’s different. Not better, not worse, just different. My theory about the world’s sharpest razor blade turns out to be incorrect, as I watch him dig the blade into my skin and tear it slowly. Blood is dripping down my thighs, sensitive pale skin stained a sweet bright red. The cuts bloom open, beads of blood springing to the surface and then rushing down my thighs. Tyler works on me in silence, his expression neutral and focused like a skilled surgeon. I know he’s enjoying it. I’m enjoying it. My thighs burn and sting and bleed and I never want it to stop. There’s blood on the carpet between my legs. He pulls up the hem of my boxers, cutting farther up my thigh. The back of his hand rubs my cock as he cuts, and I hear myself whine like a bitch.

“Too much?”

“No.” No. Of course it isn’t too much. It’s fucking perfect and I want more.

“Give me your hand.” He stops cutting me and holds up the razor blade. I want to beg him for more. But he wouldn’t care. I do what he wants, because that’s the only thing that matters. He grabs onto my wrist, gentle but firm, and slices my palm.

It’s deep and long and painful and I yelp. He squeezes my wrist tighter.

He stands up, still holding my wrist, and tugs the waistband of his briefs with his free hand, pulling them down. His cock is half-hard. And big. Though I suppose it’s always been big. He pulls me towards him and sets my bleeding hand on his cock. I wrap my fingers around it. The burning in my thighs is nothing compared to my hand. It’s shaking, but gripping Tyler’s dick makes it shake less, so I do. He looks at me expectantly. I start stroking him.

“Good boy.”

I like being good for Tyler. I am bleeding all over his cock, covering his length in red. He loves it. I am giving my life to him, I am giving him everything I have because he is my god.

He pulls my hand away. His cock is dripping, blood and precome falling to the carpet. We should probably clean the carpet. We won’t.

Then his hands are on me, pushing me down onto my stomach. It isn’t a fight. Tyler has this certain gleam in his eyes when he’s fighting, and the gleam in his eyes as he tosses the blade aside and tears off my boxers is different. It occurs to me that I could fight him, I don’t have to let him sodomise me because that’s clearly what he’s going to do. But I’m not going to fight him. He knows it.

My blood is wet and sticky and not as warm as I thought it would be. It is not an effective lubricant. His cockhead pushes demandingly at my hole, and I will it inside because I want to make him happy. It’s tight, and he’s wide, and it hurts. A different kind of hurt again, different from cuts or fighting but this time it’s decidedly better. He pushes deep into me, and he only gets wider as he pushes further in.

I am Jack’s gaping asshole.

I am Tyler’s willing fucktoy.

He’s buried inside me, balls slapping against my ass as he pushes in and out at a feverish pace. He’s pushing and pulling at my insides and it feels like he’s going to rip something. I realize I want him to rip something. I want Tyler to fuck me til I’m raw and bleeding. I want Tyler to ruin me, tear my body apart in every way he can, burning my hands and bruising my face and slicing my thighs and ripping my guts.

I’ve never had a dick in me before, and I suspect it doesn’t usually feel this good. I’m not gay, I’ve never liked men, I’ve never even entertained the possibility. But Tyler has made me into a cockslut. I want to take him inside me in every way I can, I want to suck his cum down my throat and feel him buried in my ass and I want it forever, I want to make him my whole life.

He calls me a faggot. I whine. He calls me a whore. I moan. I roll my hips into the floor, trying to get some feeling in my cock because it’s starting to become unbearably hard. I arch my back, reaching down to touch myself, and Tyler pulls my hand away. It’s not about me. This isn’t for me to feel good, this is for Tyler to use me. I’m a sex toy with extra steps. I’m okay with that.

He cums in me, and the wetness is surprising but not unpleasant. He pulls out and it drips out of me down my thighs, stinging my cuts. Finally, mercifully, he grabs my cock and gives me a few quick strokes. It doesn’t take much before I finish myself, shaking and sweating and whining through the best orgasm of my life. More cum in my fresh cuts. I deserve it. I don’t know why but I do.

“You liked that?” Tyler says. It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.

“You want to do that again sometime?” I do. He knows I do. I belong to him. My body is his to use and tear apart and it feels amazing.

“You’re a good whore. Good boy.”

I almost feel myself getting hard again. I am Tyler’s whore. I am _his_. It feels good to be _his._

He takes good care of me. It hurts.


End file.
